


Unspoken

by vega_voices



Series: Come Rain, Come Shine [16]
Category: Murphy Brown (TV)
Genre: F/M, Idiots in Love, UST, idiots to lovers, just kiss her already, these two idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 09:44:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17363663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vega_voices/pseuds/vega_voices
Summary: What the hell was she doing? At least she hadn’t donned a backless evening dress? Jesus. What was she, nineteen?





	Unspoken

**Title:** Unspoken  
**Author:** vegawriters  
**Fandom:** Murphy Brown  
**Series:** Come Rain, Come Shine  
**Pairing:** Murphy Brown/Peter Hunt (UST)  
**Timeframe:** Thrill of the Hunt  
**Rating:** Hints of Maturity  
**A/N:** You wonder what the night before the kiss was like? I know I do.  
**Disclaimer:** It would be great if CBS would renew Murphy Brown. And when they do, Warner Bros, Diane English, and co will be the ones making the money from this. I do this for fun and to fix canon and you know, all that jazz.

 **Summary:** _What the hell was she doing? At least she hadn’t donned a backless evening dress? Jesus. What was she, nineteen?_

This. Was. Stupid.

Yet, here she was, changing her clothes for the 5th time, ignoring the judging looks her son was giving her from the middle of her bed.

“What?” She asked the almost-two-year-old.

Avery continued to chew on his soft sculpture from the Louvre.

“What?” she asked again, finally deciding for her first choice of an outfit: loose fitting black linen pants, a pale blue t-shirt, and a black cardigan. Her hair was back in a braid. She sank to the edge of the bed and ruffled Avery’s hair. “Are you implying that I’m rather pathetic? Because, I am.”

Avery giggled. “Tetic.”

“Yep. That’s me.” She groaned and pulled him up into her arms. “Come on, buddy. It’s bedtime for you and mommy has work to do tonight.”

Yes. Work. That was why she’d changed her clothes five times, changed into one of her lacier bras, added a lighter lip gloss, ordered dinner from her favorite place. It had nothing to do with how Peter’s eyes followed her out of the office the other day, how good he smelled, or how he’d leaned on her desk, pushing into her personal space, and she’d liked it. God, she’d liked it.

This was crazy. Miles and Corky were the ones with the crush, not her.

So what if the last time she’d felt like this while conducting an interview in her home, Jake had been in town. She’d seen how well that worked out. What the hell was she doing? At least she hadn’t donned a backless evening dress? Jesus. What was she, nineteen?

She plunked Avery down in his crib and settled into the chair next to him. “You’re almost ready for a big boy bed,” she teased. He looked over, staring up at her with the sleepy eyes he’d inherited from his father, and she sighed. “How are you getting so big?” Avery giggled again.

“Grover.” He demanded.

Murphy chuckled and reached for _The Monster at the End of this Book_ and started to read. It was Avery’s favorite. It only took one and a half times for him to drop off and she stood up, covered him with his blanket, and tiptoed out. She had a few minutes before Peter was due.

Why the hell had she offered her place to do this final interview? They could have met in her office, like they had all week. Really, she had more than enough detail to get through a fifteen minute conversation. But here she was, asking for more. Wanting more.

 _What’s really going on?_ Her inner demon taunted. She crushed it under the ball of her foot.

She laid dinner out on the dining room table, made sure her notebook and recorder were ready to go, and right on cue, the doorbell rang. Murphy took a breath and walked over, reminding her inner teenager to just keep it professional as she took in the sight before her.

 _Professional?_ The teenager taunted. _When he looks like that?_

Blue jeans that fit in just the right places, a white button down shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, a leather jacket draped over his shoulders. God.

Miles and Corky had the crush. It was them. Not her.

God, he even smelled good.

“Beautiful place,” Peter said as he came inside. “So this is what sitting behind the anchor desk gets you?”

“Well,” Murphy smirked as she took his jacket and hung it up. “A good agent helps.”

Peter laughed. “Good point. Did you ever think when you got into this business you’d be worrying about agents and publicists?”

She snorted. “I mostly worried about the grabbing hands of producers and falling bombs.”

“Me too,” he said. And then stopped. “Well, the … not the … never mind.”

Murphy laughed. “I get it.” She led him through to the dining room. “I figured we could eat while we talked about the medical situation over there.”

“I’ve never realized the work you put into your interviews,” Peter replied as he sat down, arranging the sling awkwardly. “Whole new respect.”

“Thank you.” Murphy handed him the rice and appreciated that he spooned it out himself. She’d been a bit worried that he’d expect some help with his arm. “But I’d have thought the wall of awards would have earned that for me already.” Peter smirked at her. She smirked back and poured the curry out onto her own rice. “Tell me about the medical tent you woke up in.”

She could do this. They could eat. They could talk. She’d get rid of him. And by tomorrow night, he’d be out of her hair for good. Why was that thought so damn disappointing?

***

So. Murphy Brown lived in a mansion in Georgetown and he crashed in a studio apartment that he’d never quite unpacked. Even sitting at her dining room table surrounded by takeout containers, she was elegant.

How had this happened? How had he somehow along the way fallen for this woman? Just because she was smart and funny and sharp and so beautiful it made his skin hurt. Well. Parts of his skin.

How could he ever tell her he’d seen her face when the bullets rained down?

He couldn’t stop staring at the slope her shirt made against her chest, the cardigan as it shaded her breast. He’d look up into her eyes that the blue of her shirt only highlighted and get lost in how they sparkled as she asked questions, how they softened when he answered. She listened, to everything. She missed nothing. At least, nothing related to the interview.

But, had she noticed how he kept reaching for her hand and stopping? How he leaned in close whenever he could? How his eyes kept dropping to her lips?

Would she push him away if he just kissed her? Would she shove him back, break his other arm? Would she pull him closer and slide into his lap? Would she let him slide his hand up under that shirt, tease away the cups of her bra, let his fingers close around her nipple?

Had she felt it the other day in her office, when he’d sat on her desk and leaned into her space? Fucking Miles. He’d been ready to put his heart on the line and instead Miles had dragged him into the bullpen and he’d had to cover. All Peter had wanted was to tell Murphy about what really happened when he got shot. He wanted to ask if she was feeling this too. He wanted to kiss her and help her out of her clothes and meet her eyes as she moved over him, taking him into her body.

This was terrible and stupid and he knew it. He also wanted her more than he’d wanted anyone else in his life and he was scared his feelings really were more than just sexual. Would he have seen her face if it was just because he wanted to feel her mouth on him?

But he had to keep this professional and hopefully stay sitting down until he wouldn’t embarrass himself when he stood up. Just because he wanted to bring her against his body and listen to how she sounded as she climaxed didn’t mean she wanted it. For all he knew, there was someone in her life and all of the attraction between them was just in his head.

So why was she glancing at his lips? Why was she blushing? Was she blushing?

“Okay,” Murphy said. His heart dropped. He knew that tone. He’d used that tone. “I think I have everything I need?”

“Can I ask you a question?” Peter leaned forward, hoping she wouldn’t tell him she was tired, praying that her son wouldn’t interrupt them.

Murphy paused, and her thumb clicked the recorder off. “Sure …”

***

How had this become a personal conversation?

Well, logically, she knew. They’d finished dinner and he’d asked her a question when she was done with hers and then he’d helped her clean up and for reasons passing understanding, she’d offered him tea. He nodded and looked at her, his eyes drifting again to her lips, and Murphy just hoped he didn’t notice her nipples tightening and pebbling through her shirt.

 _Well_ , the inner voice taunted, _you’re the one who wore that bra with that shirt. It’s a damn invitation for him to run those hands over you, you nitwit._

Again, she crushed the voice beneath her shoe.

“What kind do you like?” She waved to the cupboard full of boxes and stood in his personal space while he glanced at them.

“Blackberry sounds good, actually.”

Murphy took a deep breath. “All right, why don’t you go wait in the living room. Only thing to do right now is watch water boil.”

It was an excuse. She could have just filled the silence, but she needed a moment to herself. The moment he was out of the room, Murphy pressed her hands to her breasts, pressing her nipples back in as best she could. When that only stimulated them more, she smoothed the cardigan down and tried a deep breath. This. Was. So. Stupid.

Please, she pleaded with her body, stop betraying her.

Could he please just get on a plane and get the hell out of here?

She emerged from the kitchen with the mugs of tea to find him perusing her bookshelf. In his hand was her tattered biography of Robert Kennedy and it took a lot to take it away from him. Instead, she walked over to the couch and set the tea down.

“You ever thought about writing a book about your perspectives of what happened?” He was still by the bookshelf and she watched him war with putting the book back and bringing it over.

Murphy shrugged. “It’s been in a file for years, but I haven’t done much with it. I always feel like if I’m going to really take time to write a book, there should be a perspective that only I have. There were a lot of young, dedicated workers on that campaign.”

“That’s fair.” Peter walked over, still holding the book. It took a minute but he sat down and adjusted, putting the book next to him on the couch. He looked frustrated with the sling.

“So there’s one question I haven’t asked yet.” Murphy leaned over as he took the tea, realizing too late just how close she was in his space. An instinct breached the distance between them and she touched her hand, lightly, to his sling.

“And that is?” His eyes met her and she shifted.

“Does it hurt?”

Peter chuckled. “You’ve been shot. You know it hurts.”

The blush crossed her cheeks but Murphy didn’t lower her eyes. “I know it hurts up front. But the question is, are you at the itching and burning stage? Or are you still in the dull ache but hating the sling stage?”

What was she doing? She knew better.

“Honestly, I’m still in the I’m glad painkillers exist stage.” Peter rolled his eyes. “Does that make me a wimp?”

“No.” Murphy smiled and dropped her hand. The tea was a good cover and she reached for it. Their hands brushed and she felt the charge, the question that hung in the air. What the hell were they doing?

The truth was, there was one question she hadn’t asked. One question she wasn’t sure how to ask. What if she didn’t like his answer? What if he was just as arrogant and brash as he liked to come across? What if his response broke her heart?

But why had he come back? Here? To visit her office, sit on her phone?

She shivered, covering the action with a sip of her tea. What was going through that head of his? Was she imagining how his eyes kept dropping to her lips? What would it be like to kiss him? To just give in to the breathless fantasies that her subconscious kept forcing into her dreams. Was it even fair to ask considering the arm he was still nursing?

Wasn’t it a good thing she didn’t sleep with her interviewees?

Where did they go from here? God. Why did she even think there was a “here” to go to? But she knew full well tonight only ended one of two ways: in her bed, or with him leaving, awkwardly, and her praying the interview was over quickly.

***

They were inches apart, the book the only thing between them. She’d stood up to put it away, to grab her binder of RFK’s speeches, and for reasons he didn’t understand, he’d followed. Now he stood in front of her as she reached up to the top shelf and instinct hand him reaching out to steady her.

The air changed.

His hand tightened on her hip and this was it. Here. Right now. _Say something_ , his inner voice taunted. _Say something and kiss her and if she doesn’t hit you, get her upstairs and out of that shirt and those pants. See if she tastes as good as she smells._

He opened his mouth to speak, to whisper her name and close his lips over hers, praying that she wouldn’t kill him. But she stepped back, her hand on his chest, and turned away, the speeches forgotten. It was silly to chase her, to pull her back against him.

Did she feel it too? She had to.

“It’s getting late. I think I have everything. I’ll … see you tomorrow.”

Peter clenched and unclenched his fist in the sling, trying to work out the nervous energy. This was stupid. He’d seen her face because the brain did stupid things at the moment of near-death. After all, would anything except his mother’s face have made sense?

“Yeah,” Peter took a breath and followed her to the foyer. She handed him his jacket and for just a moment, their fingers brushed. One pinkie against the other. Her nostrils flared and her eyes dilated and Peter knew he had to do it. He had to … “I’ll see you tomorrow, Murphy.”

“Yeah. Be there at eight, okay?”

“I remember how it works,” Peter teased. He squeezed her arm and walked to the soor. “See you then.” He turned and she was there, in his space, and every single molecule demanded he reach up and brush the strand of hair from her cheek. Instead, he just ducked his head.

“Good night, Peter.”

“Good night, Murphy.”

The door closed and locked behind him and Peter turned to his car. He needed a cold shower.


End file.
